


take the bitter, leave the sweet

by formerlydf



Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Brendon occasionally being an asshole boyfriend, Confusion, F/M, M/M, Mild D/s, non-linear progression, one or two pejorative terms for gay people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-06
Updated: 2009-03-06
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4788560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/pseuds/formerlydf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So you're good at pissing people off, and you need better taste in girlfriends," Shane says, his nose about three inches away from Brendon's, fingers lying hot along Brendon's jaw, hand close to Brendon's knee. </p><p>"Or boyfriends," Brendon says automatically, and Shane's grip doesn't change at all.</p><p>Or: Brendon is a terrible boyfriend when he's not being held down and the inside of his brain is a mess, but he eventually manages to stumble his way towards okay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	take the bitter, leave the sweet

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so, so much to [](http://dimmingdivine.livejournal.com/profile)[dimmingdivine](http://dimmingdivine.livejournal.com/), who is officially my hero, for the beta. And no thanks whatsoever to [hapakitsune](http://archiveofourown.org/users/hapakitsune/pseuds/hapakitsune), who listened when I moaned, "I'm writing Brendon!het, how did this happen?" and typed back, "hahahahaha."
> 
> [Originally posted [on LJ.](http://formerlydf.livejournal.com/135200.html)]

"Hey, babe," Audrey says, curling an arm around Brendon's neck and squeezing tightly, enough that he wonders if this is what the beginning of strangulation feels like but not so much that he actually thinks she's angry at him.

"Hey Auds," he says, twisting his fingers in her skunk-striped hair, the tense strands pulling across his fingers. He tugs a little and she elbows him, tossing her head until he lets go. "What's up?"

"What, I can't want to say hi to my boyfriend?" Audrey asks, pressing a feather-light kiss to his cheek that probably doesn't even smudge her lipstick. He likes it when she calls him her boyfriend; it feels like he can rewrite the past, make it so he wasn't a loser in high school, like he never got shoved across hallways and called a fag in the locker rooms. He's a fucking rockstar with a hot girlfriend and fans and maybe he pretends to kiss his (male) guitarist onstage, but if you could only hear how everybody screams.

Audrey is bony in his lap, her skin a little chilly against his arms, her lipstick waxy and sweet when he ruins it thoroughly. "What was that for?" she asks, trying vainly to contain the red smears and instead just smearing it everywhere, sounding a little breathless despite her perpetual attempt to be dry and amused and unsurprised by everything.

"What, I can't want to kiss my girlfriend?" Brendon asks. When he talks he can feel her lipstick, spread across his lips.

By the time he gets to Lana he never even calls her his girlfriend. She says she doesn't mind. She says she likes it that way. She says, "I mean, boyfriend, girlfriend, it all sounds so high school."

He thinks that would make Audrey the cheerleader to his quarterback. They weren't the only ones in his high school who dated, who had girlfriends or boyfriends, marching band was practically incestuous, but he likes the image of Audrey in a cheerleader outfit. Her hair would have clashed. She would have hated it.

She would have done it if he had asked, and he could've asked, could've asked for anything, but he would've looked ridiculous trying to be a football player, and he doesn't have a cheerleader fetish anyway.

Jewel tells him, "No," not about cheerleaders but when he tries to lead, like he thinks he's supposed to (isn't he?). Says, "No," and he falls back on the bed and falls apart under her hands. She's strong for someone so small; she leaves bruises on his arms that he rubs for days afterwards. Spencer looks at him oddly but Brendon doesn't think anyone else notices, except maybe Dusty and Zack.

Audrey scratches him one night. She doesn't apologize at the time, it would ruin the mood, but later she runs a finger over the angry red marks and says, "Sorry, babe."

"It's okay," Brendon says. "Sorry I — it —"

"I know, it slipped," she says, rolling her eyes, and Brendon wonders if maybe the two are connected somehow but he's worried that if he thinks about it any longer he'll realize he liked it. Both of the its.

He gives her a hickey once. He likes to look at it for as long as it last, purple and green and yellow against her white skin. She's almost as pale as he is. He wonders if he would bruise the same as she does.

Lana's pale too. He comes on her chest, on her stomach, because he's been thinking about it for a while, about swathes of white skin and even whiter spatters of come, hot until the air cools it down, wet and sticky. He rubs his chest absently and wonders what it feels like for her, dripping down her breast and her side. She says she's fine with it, so he thinks she's telling the truth.

He tries it again for the hell of it, comes higher up — more on her breasts, her neck, a little on her face — because it feels like something's missing. A drop lands on her lip and he kisses her, feeling the skin of their chests start to stick together as the come cools.

Something's missing. Something's weird. "Is this what you want, Bren?" Audrey asks, sliding her lips over his dick or curled up with him on the sofa, and he says, "Yeah, perfect," because she's his first girlfriend and maybe he's doing something wrong? Or maybe this is the way it always is?

Audrey's hot, and she likes their music and she likes Brendon enough to let him do whatever he wants. Maybe that's not a good thing. "You're kind of an asshole boyfriend," Spencer tells Brendon when they're sitting on the couch, Spencer cross-legged and Brendon with his legs slung over the arm. Their voices are quiet because everyone still on the bus — things get crowded when you're not a headliner, other bands and crew and everybody wakes up at different times — is sleeping.

"Shut up," Brendon retorts immediately, because criticism sucks and he's tired and it's not his fault that Spencer's probably a perfect boyfriend, even if he's not dating anyone. Spencer always knows what to do, and if he doesn't he manages to keep everyone calm until they figure something out, except when he doesn't. But Spencer, Spencer probably wouldn't have any problem knowing what to do all the time and knowing how to tell if other people mean it when all they say is that it's good, yeah, it's good, no matter what you try to do. "That's not what your mom said last night."

"Dude, shut it about my mom," Spencer says, shoving Brendon, and that's better because at least he's changed the subject, sort of.

But Brendon still can't help but wonder: what exactly makes him an asshole boyfriend? How can he be what she wants when she doesn't tell him? Or she tells him sometimes, every so often, "Let's go to this club," and, "Oh, you have to meet my friend," and, "Let's get wasted tonight," and, "Let's go to Disneyland." And he always listens when she tells him what she wants (until he's sick of feeling uncomfortable when he isn't drunk) but then —

Any given night means Brendon knocking back a shot of some sort of alcohol that slides smoothly down his throat right before it burns his stomach. It feels like the tequila or rum or vodka evaporates from Brendon's mouth, sending hazily warm fumes up into his brain. It means Brendon and Audrey pressed together, arms around waists and necks and wherever else, sweat slick where they're touching.

She pulls him into the bedroom and lies down on the bed and says, "Come on." He waits to see if there's an _and_ anywhere, but now it's his show.

"No," Jewel says, and she pushes him back, climbs on top of him and kisses him. Her shirt rumples under his hands as they move up and down her back, fingers running across skin and strong muscles, skimming across the lace strap of her bra, and bunching in cotton. She twines her fingers in his hair, hard enough that he can feel the tug. She's straddling his waist, rocking her hips forward, down; Brendon isn't wearing any underwear, and he's so hard that his jeans chafe.

His stomach drops when she flips them over so he's on top, but she's not giving up, just unbuttoning her jeans and pushing him down until his nose presses against the waist of her underwear.

"Take them off," she says, and he pulls her jeans and panties off and presses his lips to her clit. "Yes," she says, and he presses the flat of his tongue against her clit, and again when she groans.

She curls her fingers in his hair again and pulls him forward until his chin is wet.

He's gone down on Audrey before. The first time she says, "Harder," and, "There," and, "You can use your fingers," too. The second time she mostly just moans until she convulses around his fingers and against his tongue.

It happens occasionally, usually when she makes some sort of hint (or just says it out loud, because Audrey at least is more demanding than Lana) because otherwise, if she just says she wants whatever he wants, it's easier to lie down and close his eyes and let her suck him off.

Blowjobs are easy, because you can close your eyes and not think about whether it's a boy or girl and what that means to you. The first time Brendon gets a blowjob from a guy, he's very drunk and the guy is standing next to him at the bar, tipsy.

"You're Brendon Urie," he says, which is funny as introductions go because Brendon already knew that. It's funny, too, the way the boy is trying so hard to look disinterested despite his gleaming eyes; it makes Brendon think of Audrey, which is a first for the weekend. He should call her soon, see when she can come down and follow the tour for a while.

"I am," Brendon agrees.

"I'm Tyler," the boy says, his hips inching closer to Brendon's, and Brendon smiles, nods his head towards the bathrooms and walks off.

They meet up in a few minutes, and Tyler goes down as soon as the door shuts. From the top it's hard to tell he's a boy; he looks like a girl who looks like a boy who looks like a girl, as scene as if he sprung fully-formed from Pete Wentz's head, all tight shirts and angles and strangely colored hair. He's wearing a glitter belt to hold up the size zero skinny jeans that might otherwise slip off his nonexistent ass; Brendon approves. He likes glitter.

Brendon comes in Tyler's mouth, and as he's tying up the condom (Tyler's, strawberry flavor) someone walks into the bathroom, says, "Oh! Sorry, sorry," and walks out. Brendon laughs, and Tyler laughs, and Brendon's pretty sure he forgets to reciprocate. He feels guilty about cheating (kind of) when he wakes up hungover the next morning.

The next time with a guy is better.

That's the one question his family never asks him when they finally come back (in proportion to the rest of his life, it's not that long of a time between his moving out and their talking to him again, but it feels like centuries when he's not distracting himself with music or his band or alcohol).

"It was a very good show," his mom says, and he knows he can talk to her about chords, about piano riffs and melodies. It's nice having a piano teacher for a mother, sometimes, except when he feels like that means she should understand and she doesn't. "Where did you get the idea for the circus theme?"

"What's touring like?" Kyla asks.

"Is it hard, being on the road all the time?" Kara asks. She didn't bring her kids; it would have been too loud for them. He thinks they also don't need to see Uncle Brendon getting a lapdance from a dancer wearing a skirt, a corset and facepaint, or grinding his hips against the pretty (male) guitarist in ruffles and makeup. "You've been eating more than junkfood, right?"

When they're alone, Matt says, "So, you looked pretty cosy with some of those dancers..."

Brendon smiles because of Jewel, even if he can't explain that he likes touching people, flirting with people, sitting on their laps, without doing anything about it. He respects the dancers too much to think that they want to sleep with him, and he still doesn't get why Jewel did but he loves the memory.

"Man," Mason says, "there must be perks to giving up the faith," even though he never would. Brendon thinks Matt maybe had sex, or handjob, outside of marriage once, but he apologized to god afterwards. Mason never has, and now he's married, too.

Are there perks? Is it worth it, giving up his family's faith to get married to music, doing what he wants and knowing that every time he sees his family, there's always that layer of distance behind their eyes, because they don't understand parts of him. (And they'll never, ever talk about the stage show beyond generalities; nothing about the lap dance or about his almost, so-close kiss with Ryan.) Behind his eyes, because he doesn't understand their god. (His god isn't nearly so demanding, because music just wants to be played.)

And knowing that he'll never talk to them about thinking that he might like guys, a little, or more than a little, because even if they'll still love him anyway he can't take that chance, not anymore. He can't solidify that faint layer he sees drift between them like a veil sometimes, when he climbs on Jon's back or gives Spencer a loud kiss on the cheek.

But they let Shane come for Christmas and Brendon loves them for it. He loves them so much that he makes sure to mention that Shane's girlfriend Regan (on-again) took Dylan over Christmas, which is like a present for the whole family.

Brendon wouldn't mind having Shane come to all his family gatherings, but it might be dangerous, giving Shane a look into the Urie family. Shane, Shane is dangerous, because Brendon feels comfortable with him almost immediately, and Brendon likes everyone at first meeting but he's not particularly trusting.

Shane is dangerous because he films and he takes photos, and sometimes he films and takes photos of Brendon, and the problem is that Shane sees a lot when he's behind his camera. Brendon doesn't want anyone to look too closely at him, because if he's so confused by himself he can't imagine what they're going to see.

"You're a rockstar," Lana says when he asks, twining her arms around his neck. She doesn't even squeeze tightly, and Brendon wonders why he bothered. It's not like he really cares about her opinion.

The people whose opinion he does care about, he doesn't ask. It'll sound too emo when they've dropped that label, and Brendon doesn't know if he wants to hear what they have to say. He shoves it to the back of his head and ignores it, goes back to being the band's cheerful, loveable goof. It's easy to just pay attention to something else; it solves a lot of problems.

He knows Audrey agrees, because when he says he maybe wants her to meet his parents (newly returned) she hums and says maybe and ignores it until he stops suggesting it. It's probably better that way; he's not sure if he's trying to shock his parents or to prove that he can get a gorgeous girlfriend after all.

Audrey's not a good girl, and he loves that, loves that she's the opposite of everything he had when he was growing up, loves that she curses like a sailor and doesn't care who stares at her ass when she walks around in her underwear and pretends to be disaffected because cynicism is cool and contradicts people just to start arguments.

"You know she's only with you because you're famous," Brent says, biting back the stutter and it's not like Brent can really talk, when he's dating the treasurer of their old high school's student government, when he's so disgustingly normal despite everyone around him getting stranger and stranger (and Brent is getting estranged).

"Fuck off, man, I don't diss your girlfriend," Brendon says, when he really means, _I don't care_.

But. Brendon's best times with Audrey are when he's still buzzing with energy, revved from a show or just bright with alcohol and being the center of attention, and he's not like that all the time, can't be like that all the time or eventually he'd wrap his car around a lightpole or something and be just another person who put that look on Ryan's face, and now on Spencer's, too.

He can't be like that all the time because he doesn't know what he wants but he's pretty sure he wants something that isn't here, and Audrey says, "Come on, Brendon," and it's easier to just hang out with his band than to be everything she needs or everything he thinks he should be, for her. (Because there's something that Audrey wants as well, and he doesn't think she knows what it is either but they both think that they can find it in each other, and Brendon thinks the only real difference is that he gives up first, even if Audrey gives up louder.)

Brendon squeezes onto the couch between Jon and Spencer, wiggling until he's comfortable — "Brendon, stop squirming," Spencer complains, smacking his head — and then finally giving up and letting his head fall back onto Jon's lap, his legs over Spencer's thighs and his feet propped on one of Ryan's knees. ("It's funny," Tom says one time, looking at them, "you all seem to take up the same amount of space, no matter how big of a sofa you sit on.") Jon runs his fingers through Brendon's hair, and if Shane was here too then Brendon might not ever want to leave.

"Shane!" Lana snaps, one of the rare occasions where she lets herself get angry, right before Brendon dumps her. Can you dump someone who (whom?) you're not really dating? "All you talk about is Shane!"

"All you talk about is your band," Audrey complains, her eyes glinting and surrounded by makeup that just makes him think about how Ryan could do it better. "You spend all your time with them. You never even talk to me anymore."

He turned down going clubbing with her last night to stay back and watch a movie with Ryan, has stayed on the bus for the past three nights, because he's kind of sick of ending every night by vomiting in a trashcan or a dirty toilet and dealing with Ryan and Spencer's looks in the morning. "What do we have to talk about?" Brendon scoffs. All he and Audrey do when they spend time together is get wasted or have sex or both, and sometimes Brendon comes harder when he's jacking off than when he's with Audrey. (Oh, fuck, hanging out with Ryan turned him into a bitch.)

"I take it back," Audrey spits. "I bet you weren't doing a whole lot of _talking_ with Ross. Your mouth was probably too full for that, right?"

"What the fuck is your problem?" Brendon yells; it's not their first fight and it's not their last, but they do break up about two weeks after this, when they start having more arguments than sex.

"My problem? My problem is that my boyfriend is a fucking cocksucker!" Audrey shouts, and like all their arguments it just gets nastier from there, until one of them storms away.

And she's wrong, anyway, she's wrong about Brendon and Ryan, because you can't always control who you want but even in the chaos of Brendon's brain he knows who is Off Limits, and on that list is every single member of his band, past and present. Brendon may look, he might press close when he's on stage and the screaming lets him do anything at all, but he knows the lines.

He knows where he stands when he hooks up with Lana; music is for his sanity, performances are to send lightning-raw energy into his body, and the girls are for sex. His bandmates are for everything else, talking and feelings and stupid jokes and pissing each other off and having each other's back and just hanging out.

But Shane, Shane crosses the lines somewhere, and for the record, Brendon never actually seriously suggests to Lana that they have a threesome with Shane, it's just a joking thought, because he never really feels comfortable with Lana (and he tries — he remembers Jewel and asks Lana to ride him, but it's not the same. She giggles and moans too loudly for it to be real, but he does still wonder how it feels, wonders what it would be like and if her thighs ache) but he always feels comfortable when he feels Shane come up behind him and put his hands on Brendon's shoulders.

He also never comes on her coffee table. He fucks her over it, her elbows rubbing against the wood surface as she rocks forward, Brendon's chest pressed against her back. His pants are still bunched around his knees because they were too tight to bother getting off all the way, and he's just going to leave right after, anyway, like always.

When Lana posts that letter, Jewel calls Brendon, and they talk and laugh and then she says, "Trust me, your dick isn't that small."

"Thank you?" Brendon says, drumming his fingers on the countertop because he's not sure he wants to have this conversation, he wants to — he wants to — he doesn't know what he wants. His leg starts bouncing, too.

"Just a fact," Jewel says, calm and amused over the phone line and three hundred miles in between them. "You're good in bed, your dick isn't small, and everything she says is much less believable when she posts it on the internet so that everyone can see."

Brendon sighs, letting his head rest on the counter. His band told him that too — the last part, at least, and Pete said that nothing's bad until actual photos of your dick end up online instead of just disparaging comments about it, and anyway this has happened to Brendon before so he should be used to it. Brendon thinks that Pete is worried Brendon's inferiority complex will get worse than his own, but from what Brendon can tell what goes on in Pete's head is a lot crazier than what's ever gone on in Brendon's, which is saying something.

"Schadenfreude is always worth something," he explains to Shane, sitting on the couch and playing with the remote, clicking the buttons without turning the TV on. He crosses his legs, uncrosses them, lies back on the couch, scoots back, sits up.

"Brendon," Shane says, resting a hand on Brendon's thigh. A heavy, warm, strong hand, the nails a little ragged, not like Brendon's because Brendon always cuts his nails for guitar, and anyway chewing your nails is way too obvious. Better to jitter and smile, but now Shane squeezes Brendon's thigh briefly before loosening his grip. He doesn't take his hand away, which is good because right now Brendon _needs_ that hand on his thigh. He concentrates on its reassuring weight until he stops needing to move.

"Brendon," Shane repeats, his voice low and Brendon has never, ever heard that voice before but it makes all the nerves in his body shoot to where Shane's hand lies on his leg. He can feel the denim of his jeans press against his skin in the five spots where Shane's fingers grip his thigh. "I don't care how much of it is true. I would never have become friends with you if you were as much of an asshole as she makes you out to be."

"Maybe you're just oblivious," Brendon suggests, trying to laugh without meeting Shane's eyes. Shane puts a hand on his chin and raises it, and now Brendon's senses are going haywire, chin thigh chin thigh chin thigh chin thigh. "I mean, it's happened twice, that can't really be a coincidence."

"So you're good at pissing people off, and you need better taste in girlfriends," Shane says, his nose about three inches away from Brendon's, fingers lying hot along Brendon's jaw, hand close to Brendon's knee. Chin thigh chin thigh chin thigh almost almost nose.

"Or boyfriends," Brendon says automatically, and Shane's grip doesn't change at all.

The funny thing is that even when he's around so many challengers of heteronormativity, it's still hard to tell himself that he's bi — let alone anyone else, because people who love you can still turn their backs as you walk away and people who break some rules in public still have others that they keep in private. (Oh, I love gay people, but if my boyfriend hangs out with other boys I'll kill him.)

And he doesn't want to like guys, he doesn't want to show everyone from his parent's church who keep their kids away from him that they were right, oh, they were right, doing what you love in life even if it means leaving the church, leaving your family, will make you (so much worse than an alcoholic or a drug addict) will make you _gay_. He doesn't want to prove that wearing girls' jeans and being tactile with guys does mean you want to suck cock. He doesn't want to be the names that he heard in the hallways in high school, the words Audrey yells at him when they have those arguments.

He doesn't think of Tyler when she yells at him because he's too busy screaming back and Tyler was just a mouth, a mouth that looked like a girl's mouth and Brendon was drunk, anyway.

But the second time — he's less drunk, and they haven't exchanged names but Brendon was the one who got nodded at this time, got invited after a dance that was more like sex and a brief conversation in which the words were really not the important part.

The man's hand wraps around Brendon's cock, and Brendon keeps his eyes wide open as he groans. The man has stubble and brown eyes, a jaw that doesn't look particularly feminine, a build that definitely doesn't. The hand on Brendon's dick twists and Brendon groans again and comes between them.

"My turn," he says, and unbuttons the man's jeans. His cock is long and flushed, the skin warm under Brendon's hand, and Brendon's never touched anyone's dick besides his own but fuck, clearly he needs to find more opportunities for it.

If anyone walks in, all they'll see is the man's back; Brendon's back is against the wall, the man's hips pressed against his, and if Brendon hadn't just gotten off he thinks he could get hard again.

Jewel straddles him, her hands pinning his arms to the bed as she moves up and down and Brendon just follows her cues and comes as hard as he does with the man in the bathroom.

"You guys and your lady friends," Brendon laughs, shoving Jon with a sock-covered foot, and Jon asks solemnly, "Do we need to find you a lady friend too, Brendon?"

And Brendon is bi, swings both ways, bats for both teams, and it's funny because it takes him a while to admit it but that's him, he wants to get down on his knees and swallow some guy's cock. And it's funny because Ryan talks about Kinsey and says philosophically that everyone is at least a little bit gay but Brendon has never once heard him talk about ever really wanting to have two dicks in a bed (although he was the one who planned out that whole damn stage show in the first place).

Brendon's hand comes up, his thumb brushes over the head, and the other man shudders and comes sticky and wet all over Brendon's fist. Brendon is more than at least a little bit gay; Brendon is a lot gay, and a little straight, enough that he pretends for a long time that that's what he wants, all of what he wants.

Lying is easier sometimes. Isn't it? (And Brendon didn't even need to take his clothes off — clever, Brendon, but quoting your own band's lyrics makes you sound like a douchebag.)

"You know," Shane says, "I think they'd be fine with it if you actually told them you like guys too."

Brendon feels his throat vibrate as he hums and says, "Pass the joint, asshole," and he smiles.

Brittany says, "You're going to be smiling the day you die," and he wonders if that's why they fall apart before they ever begin; she can't take someone as cheerful as Brendon. Or because she's sort of a friend and she sort of knows him, enough to be more than just a fuck, but she still thinks of him as chronically cheerful. (That's funny.)

"It takes more muscles to frown than to smile, Brendon," his mom tells him, her hand powdery and warm over his as the tear tracks dry on his face, because he's six and it's almost still okay to cry when you're six years old and a boy, "so why not smile?"

"Is he crying?" Matt demands, his big shoes clunking and squeaking in the entrance hall. "Be a man, Brendon."

"Did you ever fucking get past puberty?" Audrey snaps, her hair whirling as she paces, her heels clicking on the floor because Audrey loves to overwhelm as many senses as she can; today she smells like cinnamon and is wearing bright pink. "Fuck that, do you even know what to do with a girl?"

When they start dating, she asks, "Are you a virgin?" and he says, "No," even if what he means is that he got a blowjob from a girl at one of Pete's parties, but oral sex counts, anyway.

Audrey's voice is hoarse like it's been rubbed over a rock, and she snaps, "You don't want to know how many times I faked it." Brendon is almost jealous, because it's hard to fake it when you're a guy and sure, it's nice knowing that the party won't end until you've come over the blankets (or bathtub, or kitchen counter) but it would also make life easier if he could just groan a lot and didn't have to keep trying new things (anal, in the shower, doggy style, riding, over a table) to see if they would be better.

"So why the fuck didn't you say anything?" Brendon demands, and, "Why the hell did you stay?" even if he tries his best to shut his ears so he can't hear the answer.

"Why did you break up with Regan?" he asks Shane, curled on the couch with Dylan on his lap and the TV remote, dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table because neither of them clean up sometimes.

Shane shifts, Brendon shifts, the couch shifts, and Dylan jumps off and away which lets Brendon lie down and put his head on Shane's lap, because he's tactile and they're best friends and it's okay.

"Just wasn't working," Shane says, soft and low and Brendon closes his eyes. They've been avoiding this conversation for three days, and Brendon's not sure either of them knows why (but then Brendon's always thought the unexamined life is still worth living). "I mean, I love her and all, but we want different things."

Brendon doesn't ask what Shane wants. Not like Lana, it's not that Shane always says he wants what Brendon wants so Brendon just stops caring (and Brendon has never slept with anyone he respects except Jewel, and he has never slept with a real friend and he has never slept with someone he loved even if he did think that he loved Audrey once upon a time). Brendon doesn't know if he can hear what Shane wants, because Brendon is starting to think he knows what he wants and what Shane wants might not line up with it.

Shane's hand is on Brendon's shoulder, and Brendon can't help it that he feels more comfortable right now than he ever did with Lana or Audrey, and it's all Shane's fault because somehow he was trustworthy and he wormed his way past Brendon's Off Limits signs (because he's seen how sex can ruin anything, and Brendon seems to fuck things up, so why risk it with the band, or a friend, or —) and. And.

He wants something that he doesn't have, but it's here this time, just right out of his grasp.

Jewel grips his hair and pushes his head down between her legs, the muscles in her thighs trembling and tight underneath his hands. Her hand tugs enough that he can feel it, but not enough to really hurt.

Brendon leans closer to the man in front of him, smells sweat and leans his head back against the wall and groans, and oh, gay. He may prance around on stage and never go to church, but at least he hasn't told his parents that he likes cock.

"You know," Spencer says, turning a page in the newspaper and reading the international stories like what he's saying to Brendon really doesn't matter, is casual, offhand, not pointed, "Shane's really great."

"Yeah, I know," Brendon laughs. "Why do you think I'm friends with him?"

"I like him a lot better than any of the girls you've brought back." The _I_ is a _we_. Whither Spencer goest, Ryan goest aright — sometimes, this time. Brendon is not as stupid as people think he is (which isn't saying a lot).

"I'm not dating him," Brendon points out, because he doesn't know yet, because he still doesn't get why anyone he respects, anyone not fucked up would want to sleep with him, because sex is Brendon's dating at this point, or the band and Shane are Brendon's dating; he's not sure.

And his parents let Shane come for Christmas. Brendon says, "Yeah, Shane's girlfriend Regan took Dylan for a few days, we really owe her," and people stop asking, "So, Shane, you're Brendon's... roommate?"

The next time Shane comes over to Brendon's family's house, Brendon doesn't mention that Shane and Regan have broken up, because the conversation doesn't lead to it so what would be the point? Because he loves his parents and he doesn't want his visits to go back to the way it was when he and his family had just — reconnected, that's as good as word as any, when he would sit down at the table and know that everyone around him was faking their smiles just as much as he was. Love isn't enough to get past the awkwardness, always. It diminished with each visit and call, if only in the "if you walk across the room and perpetually halve the distance of your steps..." way, but the distance is so tiny now that it doesn't matter, right?

At least it will never be like his senior year of high school. He hopes it will never be like his senior year of high school.

"What was so terrible about your senior year of high school?" Ronick asks, and Ronick's a good guy. A friend, even, or at least hopefully, since if tour doesn't make you friends it'll probably make you hate each other.

"What? Oh, not that much, really," Brendon says, laughs, oh look at me I'm Brendon I over-exaggerate things. "I just didn't do too well in my classes since a certain someone —" he raises his voice so Ryan can hear the pointed comment "— insisted on practicing all the time and going to LA instead of letting me do my homework."

"Like you cared," Ryan monotonically shouts back, which is really impressive and it's funny, because most people know in a vague way what was not so great about Brendon's senior year, but Brendon still doesn't like telling them. It's in the past, and it's over, and so there's no point dwelling on it. Which is why the people who really know him know not to bring it up, except when he needs to, which is rarely. (When he wants to is never, but he has enough shitty ex-girlfriends to know that what he wants is not always what he needs. Or what he thinks he wants is not what he wants, because his mind yells things at him until he drowns it out with music and then he just tries to do what he thinks he's supposed to.)

"But is this what you want?" Brittany presses when they really could be doing better things; they've only had sex twice, she can't be bored of it yet, even if he is. She wants to talk, she wants to talk, she wants to talk, and Brendon honestly likes Brittany, in a vague sort of way that's left over from when she was one of the only people in high school who consistently was nice to him, but all he wants her to do right now is shut up. She asks about his parents, she asks if he's happy, she asks why he needs his band so much, she asks too many questions and doesn't seem to get that Brendon doesn't have any answers. "Because —"

"I'm fine," Brendon insists, laughing, and this might be why she thinks he's the eternal optimist (it's easier) and maybe it's good that they never officially start or stop dating, that it just kind of peters out until she tells him she's dating someone seriously and he tells her he's happy for her. He is. He's glad she won't be with him long enough to hate him.

That's why it's easier to be with his band. With Shane. They know him well enough that he can't suddenly surprise them into hating him. Plus, his band needs a singer. (Needs Brendon, maybe; that's not too presumptuous, is it? He knows they love him, anyway, but love is different than need, because Brendon's parents love him. The band — it's been five years, and he thinks maybe they need him, too.) And Shane needs Brendon's half of the rent. And maybe —

He moves, and wonders if it's weird that he's taking his roommate (apartment-mate? housemate?) with him but only half of their furniture. He wonders if Shane wants to live on his own.

He says, "I mean, you don't have to— I don't know if you want to get your own place, or something, or —" which is meant to be an articulate question but, unsurprisingly, doesn't end up that way.

Shane's eyes widen almost worriedly for a moment, and then the look is gone; he raises his eyebrows and says, "Dude, no way you're moving without me. First of all, you'd cry yourself to sleep every night if I wasn't there, don't lie. Plus, you have to keep me in the style to which I've grown accustomed."

He sounds completely solemn, even if the style to which he's grown accustomed is pretty much just epic, pot-fuelled video game battles and Brendon's slammin' grilled cheese sandwiches and m&m pancakes. And maybe Brendon forgetting to put clothes on before going down to get breakfast about once a month (which is okay because Brendon has to put up with Shane sometimes forgetting to shower for a week and a half when they don't even have the excuse of being on tour) and constant touching that is probably not manly in the traditional sense of the word.

Still, if this is an acceptable way of saying, "No, you're not going anywhere without me, I would miss you," then Brendon is all for it. "You know I would pay alimony. But I insist on keeping Dylan, so I guess you'll have to come with me for her."

"Guess so," Shane says, smiling.

Brendon doesn't sleep with anyone in his new bed. Or in the new house. He's sworn off sex for a while.

He tries to do that after Audrey, for a little while, but as it turns out what he really means is that he's going to swear off multiple nights of sex with the same person, so instead he just tries different people and wonders if any of them are going to be better. They're not, they're all the same, lips sliding slickly or heavily over his dick, warm and open when he pushes inside them, and it's only the fact that, hey, he's a nineteen-year-old guy, that's keeping him interested.

"I think I've been having a lot of bad sex," Brendon groans to Shane, when they've been drinking a little and it's late so it's okay, that he opens up so easily to this guy who somehow became one of his best friends despite not being in the band or — no, that's it, honestly. Despite not being in Brendon's band.

Shane doesn't say, "There's no such thing as bad sex," which Brendon is thankful for, because it would be a lie. Shane asks, "Have you had good sex?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, and when Shane looks at him like he wants Brendon to continue, Brendon taps his fingers against his thigh and adds, "Jewel — one of the Lucent Dossier dancers, we..."

It's dark, and Brendon's warm from the two beers and warm from Shane's legs over his thighs, from the body heat Brendon can feel from inches away. It's dark and it's warm and there's something in the way Shane is looking at him that makes it not weird for Shane to ask, "Yeah?" Not in the way Cash would have asked, not to triumph vicariously in the details of Brendon's score. Something else.

"Or," Brendon says, "the time I jerked that guy off in the men's room."

"Only once?" Shane asks, reaching out to hold Brendon's tapping hand.

"With him, yeah. Total, no," but the others weren't the first or the best, it was just Brendon getting closer to the itch that he couldn't scratch, because trying to figure it out was making him crazy. "You?"

"What was my best time, or have I jerked a guy off in the men's room?" Shane asks, and he hasn't stopped looking at Brendon for five minutes.

"The first one." Or the second. Or both, but he meant the first when he originally asked the question.

Shane hums for a moment, and Brendon can feel his toes move, like Shane wants to remind Brendon that yes, his legs are right there, inches from Brendon's dick. Shane might not actually want to remind Brendon of this, but Brendon's having a hard time forgetting.

"One time I pinned a guy to the mattress and fucked him so hard he forgot his own name," Shane says casually, and Brendon stops breathing for a second.

They go to sleep that night quietly and separately, and when Brendon jerks off as quietly as he can that night, he thinks of Jewel until she becomes someone else. Her hands pin him to the bed, and then when he thinks about her hands again they're not her hands at all; they're large and the nails are bitten, and there's a freckle that Brendon knows from staring at Shane's hands on his controller. Brendon's not fucking Jewel; instead his dick is hanging free and painfully untouched while he gets fucked, better than when he tries to finger himself in the shower, he thinks. And then one hand wraps around his dick and he curls his toes and he's coming, all over his own hand because he's alone.

He meets the man with no name at a club that reminds him of when he was sixteen and going to tiny, shitty, over-amped shows and dancing and thinking, wanting, shoving it into the back of his head when he walked into the cold, quiet night air and crept back home. Now, he lets himself do more than want, what Brendon at sixteen thought-didn't-think about, grinding back into the hand that lands on his hip until he feels a hard body behind him, someone taller and broader than he is; he turns his head to see dark hair, dark eyes, stubble, a jaw that isn't particularly feminine and a build that definitely isn't. (Maybe Brendon has a type.)

The man smoothes his hands down Brendon's arms and Brendon leans back, lets himself fall back and be held up, and he can't trust anybody except his band (except Shane) to catch him but maybe this one night, once. He can pretend to, at least, he can lean back but be ready to put his foot down to catch himself, in case the reassuring presence suddenly moves, leaving a void of cold air and empty space.

"I feel like I never have to worry, because he'll always be there," Haley sighs dreamily, and Brendon only hates her a little in that moment. But really she's a very sweet girl, they all are; it's good because his bandmates deserve nice girlfriends, perfect girlfriends.

"Brendon's single too!" Jon shouts out on stage, dark and hot and Brendon's sweating already. His fingers line up almost automatically, chords and pick, the strap digging into his shoulder, and —

"I don't give a shit!" Audrey screams, her voice hoarse because they've been yelling at each other for the past five minutes, and Ryan is going to fucking kill Brendon if his voice is too fucked up for the show tonight.

"I don't either!" Brendon shouts, feeling stupid and feeling like he sounds stupid and so angry, so angry for something that is probably stupid as well but feels so important right now. "So just get the fuck out! We're over!"

Audrey storms out. It's the third time they've broken up in a week, but this time Brendon means it. The make-up sex isn't good enough for them to get back together.

"Baby, I'm sorry, so sorry," Audrey murmurs the second time, her lips sliding stickily over his, and Brendon says, "Yeah, me too," and wonders if he means it, or if she does.

Shane's lips press into Brendon's, dry and warm and tasting faintly of pot and pizza, and the pillow is digging into Brendon's back. Shane pulls back and even high, Brendon knows that isn't a good sign, but then Shane puts the joint they've been sharing on a plate on the table and leans forward, at first just generally but then specifically in Brendon's direction. One hand curves around Brendon's neck, his thumb reaching up to touch Brendon's jaw; the other hand is on Brendon's thigh, pressing through the denim, stroking up and down. Caressing, even. Thigh neck thigh neck thigh neck.

Are they high enough that this can be an excuse? Is Brendon such a fucking kid that he still needs an excuse?

"I mean, I think we both knew it wasn't really going anywhere," Brittany says, smiling at Brendon as Brendon smiles back.

"I'm sorry, Britt," he tries, smiling ruefully now, the charming rogue, the goofball who can't take things seriously, "it isn't you, it's just —"

"It's not that I wasn't thinking about things seriously, it's just —" Brittany says at the same time, and then they laugh and stop talking about it and say their goodbyes, and Brendon thinks he should be sadder but instead he just feels relieved in the pit of his stomach.

"It slipped," he tells Audrey, and he doesn't bother giving Lana any excuse, because he doesn't think he needs to.

That's fine with Lana, but it would be an asshole thing to do to anyone he actually cared about, and maybe excuses aren't always about giving himself an out. Maybe they're about giving other people one.

"Plus, you have to keep me in the style to which I've grown accustomed," Shane insists, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and Brendon grins back, and they move into their new place and christen it in every way but the traditional (getting high in every room, eating pizza and leaving the boxes all over the place, bouncing on all the beds and the sofas).

He doesn't think Shane has had sex in the house yet; Brendon hasn't, because he's sworn off sex for a while and for the first time in a while, the first time in ever, he thinks he knows —

Brendon stumbles towards a locker and hears a laughed, "Fag," shouted his way.

"Having intercourse in a homosexual manner is a sin," the priest says.

Brendon can feel the bruises forming on his arms as Jewel moves up and down, his mouth and chin wet, his hips jerking upward as he gets closer and closer and closer —

"Are you gay?" Audrey demands, when she isn't insinuating things about how much time he spends with Ryan. His family just looks away, but it's not like that, it isn't, not with his band.

"I like Shane," Spencer says, and Jon smiles and hugs Brendon, and Ryan says, "Whatever, gay, straight, it doesn't matter. Fuck them, there's no such thing as normal." Because Brendon doesn't trust easily anymore, but he trusts his band. He loves his band. He needs his band, and they need him (and need is different than love), and Shane — Shane doesn't want to move without him, and Shane made his way so quietly into Brendon's life that it was like he had been there as long as Ryan and Spencer and Jon, and Brendon may have kissed first (out of a pot-fuelled feeling of bravery) but Shane was the one who pressed Brendon back into the couch.

Then again, they were both really high.

Brendon tries to lean against the wall casually, but he doesn't think it works because his fingers are tapping on his thighs which is hard because his right foot is jittering up and down. "Hey!" he says, looking up when Shane comes into the kitchen, his hair messy and his cheeks flushed. Brendon crosses his arms to try to stop himself from fidgeting, but he just ends up moving his shoulders around.

"Hey," Shane says, his voice morning-low and Brendon's life might be a lot easier if he couldn't distinguish that from Shane's tired-low and quiet-low and working-low and that low he never knows how to describe. If they didn't all sound like they did.

"Right, so," Brendon says. "Oh, I should eat breakfast. Breakfast, right," and he laughs, because it's easier to laugh and jitter than to bite your nails.

"Brendon," Shane says.

"What?" Brendon asks, and he doesn't move, even though Shane is moving. It could be any kind of moving. He could be coming to get a bowl or a mug, he could be able to go in a different direction any second. Brendon's foot bounces at double speed.

"Brendon," Shane says, his voice no longer morning-low but instead indefinable-low, and it always does something weird to the pit of Brendon's stomach. He wishes he were wearing more than boxers and a shirt, but at least he remembered to get dressed this morning.

"What," Brendon says, not asks, and then Shane really couldn't be going to get a bowl or a mug, could only be going to stand right in front of Brendon, so close Brendon can feel Shane's breath on his upper lip.

Shane puts his hands on Brendon's arms and slides them up; it feels like he's leaving trails of calm everywhere he touches. He settles just below Brendon's shoulders and grips, his thumbs pressing beneath Brendon's collarbone, and Brendon lets all of his nervous energy drain into Shane's hands. He stops moving.

"I've got you," Shane says, his eyes dark, and Brendon falls.


End file.
